


By Any Means Necessary

by goldheartedsky



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I was working on this before the cover came out I SWEAR, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Partisan!Nicky, Reunions, Saying goodbye can be the hardest word, Separation Anxiety, World War II, Worried Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28884720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldheartedsky/pseuds/goldheartedsky
Summary: “I have to go.”He nods, throat so tight that all he can manage is a short, “I know.”“I have to go, Nico. I can’t let Tunisia fall to Mussolini,” Joe mumbles, still unable to look him in the eye. The fight at home is spreading like an infection and it is no longer enough to keep cutting the sickness out from the source. Nicolò nods again, numbness creeping to his heart like winter’s first freeze, and hears Joe’s soft voice say, “I’m sorry.”When the news of Italy’s plans to invade Tunisia reach Joe and Nicolò, Joe goes home.Nicolò is forced to wait.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 23
Kudos: 296





	By Any Means Necessary

**Author's Note:**

> So this was an abandoned concept for the Epoch Zine and I was excited to be able to expand on it! I hope you enjoy!

* * *

  
When Nicolò sees the fall of Joe’s beautiful face at Andy’s letter from Berlin, the break of his dark, umber eyes as he reads the words, _‘North Africa campaign,’_ in her water-stained scrawl, he knows this is the end.

After almost eight and a half centuries together, he can read his love’s innermost thoughts with a mere glance—Joe’s heart sewn open and raw on his sleeve at every turn. Nicolò can piece together the raging thoughts in the silence that descends on them both and prepares himself for what will come when the words finally spill. The war has taken much from them, has taken far much more from so many others, but he knows that Joe cannot abandon the place he still calls home.

The fire burns low, barely embers at this point, and neither of them move to feed it. Nicolò doesn’t need to check the watch on his wrist to know that it is far later than he means it to be. Joe’s eyes are far off, refracting all the light from both the fire and stars alike as he stares into the distant darkness. Nicolò watches his hands clench to fists, skin straining on worn knuckles, and feels his stomach knot as a trembling breath falls from Joe’s gently-parted mouth.

“I have to go.”

He nods, throat so tight that all he can manage is a short, “I know.”

“I _have_ to go, Nico. I can’t let Tunisia fall to Mussolini,” Joe mumbles, still unable to look him in the eye. The fight at home is spreading like an infection and it is no longer enough to keep cutting the sickness out from the source. Nicolò nods again, numbness creeping to his heart like winter’s first freeze, and hears Joe’s soft voice say, “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.”

And it’s the truth. There’s no explanation he needs from Joe—no bargaining to be made in justification and it makes him sick that the other man believes it’s warranted. Nicolò reaches across the divide and pries one of Joe’s fists open, one finger at a time. The last embers burn out and all he can smell is smoke as it curls around them in faint whispers. Even in the darkness, he can still trace Joe’s fingerprints like a familiar, worn path; a labyrinth with his love waiting at the center.

Nicolò swallows down a creeping, heavy sob and croaks, “I will miss you regardless.”

Dark eyes meet his as Joe turns to him and there are so many unsaid words between them as their bodies meet in a tight embrace. Nicolò buries his face in the warm crook of the older man’s neck, breathing in the heady scent of cologne and sweat and everything that reminds him of Joe. It fills his lungs like saltwater and he will willingly drown in this man if it means the memory will never fade.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” The words cut deep into Nicolò’s already wounded heart and it’s the worst truth he can imagine. Joe’s head turns and his lips are warm against Nicolò’s temple as he whispers, “But I have to go.”

Nicolò will not ask him to stay for the same reason that Joe has not asked him to follow.

It is painful, letting Joe take him apart that night. It is a slow, desperate grip of bodies—Nicolò unable to cling to the older man as tight as he wishes, unable to pull him deep enough that he is sure he’ll never forget the feeling. Neither of them say much of anything except the other’s name, coming out in-between gasping kisses on trembling skin. Nicolò digs his nails into a perfect expanse of brown skin and watches the marks he leaves with sharp eyes, if only to make sure he knows Joe is still healing.

If only to have reassurance that they are both still alive.

He doesn’t sleep that night, tucked safe in the strong weight of Joe’s arms as he has done every night for centuries. Nicolò stares past the vast nothingness in front of him, past every death he has ever felt, and, for the first time, feels fear. Fear that this will be their last night together, that their immortality will abandon them the moment they willingly part, that he will be left with nothing but the memories while Joe bleeds out in the North African desert.

“Sleep,” he hears, hummed against the back of his neck, and cannot stop the single tear that tracks its way down the inner corner of his eye and over the bridge of his nose. “Sleep, Nico…I have not gone yet.” Joe’s fingers lace between his own and their bodies become seamless, become one.

Another tear cuts his skin at the thought that, soon, the thread between them will break.

In almost 850 years, since that fateful moment in the Levant when Joe had first reached for his face—reached deep into his chest to pull Nicolò’s heart from the dark, hidden recesses where he had locked it away—they have never been separated. Never for a night, a week, a year. They have become one person, one soul, and Nicolò cannot imagine the hollow chasm that will open within him the moment Joe disappears from his sight.

~~~

The train station is bustling and there is barely a space they can find alone, tucked from prying eyes for this one last moment they have together.

Nicolò feels dead on his feet, blood sluggish and legs numb, and he cannot tell if it’s from the lack of sleep or the overwhelming knowledge of what is about to come. He feels like he is drowning in the creeping melancholy every time he looks at Joe. Every time he’s blessed with that glorious smile. Nicolò is not a poet or an artist—he has no way to bless the world with a relief of his love’s dark eyes and handsome features. All he has is his memory and his sturdy hands that God gave him solely to hold Joe.

It is not enough. It will _never_ be enough.

“It will not be long,” Joe promises in the dark alcove they have hidden away in, his hands adjusting Nicolò’s shirt gently. “I know it will not be long.”

 _And what if it is?_ he wants to scream. _What then?_ But he keeps his silence and nods, jaw clenching to keep the cracks that spread from his heart from reaching his mind. Nicolò knows that, if that happens, all will be lost. His voice trembles against his will as he breathes, “Please write to me.” His hands clench into fists at his side and he cannot bear to touch Joe’s face, for he knows he’ll never let go if he does. “You _have_ to write to me, Yusuf.”

“Of course I will, Nico.”

Joe cages him against the wall, cloistered in the steadfast warmth of his arms on either side, and kisses him so hard that Nicolò forgets how to breathe. He melts against Joe’s mouth—marrow sagging heavily in the meat of his bones and his heart plummeting into the grief-slick pit of his stomach.

Nicolò can taste the first bite of saltwater burning at the back of his throat from swallowed tears and wonders if the other man can taste it as well.

But he doesn’t break. He won’t break. Not when he knows the guilt it will put in Joe’s mind.

So Nicolò keeps the carefully crafted mask on his face as they linger on the platform, steam billowing from the engine in white plumes. There are too many people for one last kiss, so all he can do is give into the building need and pull Joe into his arms, burying his face in the warm crook of his neck. His fingers clench in the back of his jacket and Nicolò still hasn’t managed to take another breath since Joe stole it with a kiss. “Come back to me,” he chokes, eyes clenched tight.

A warm hand cups the back of his neck and this time there are no words of promise. No covenant that tomorrow will come. The world has been thrown into a sea of uncertainty and they have suddenly become another casualty.

He stares in numb apprehension as Joe boards the train alone, finds his seat alone. The platform spins and Nicolò can hear the weeping of women around him and would give anything to be allowed to wear his grief so openly. Do they know he is dying inside? Can they see it in his eyes that the cavity in his chest is flooding with blood from a torn-open heart? The train lurches forward and he can only watch as Joe’s hand presses against the window, a tearful smile forced across the older man’s face as he disappears from Nicolò’s sight.

A rush of air floods his lungs and his head slips under the surface of his aguish, Nicolò’s hand flying to cover his mouth as he muffles the sharp sound of his sob.

He breaks.

~~~

_Dearest Nico,_

_We are so close to victory, I can taste it. I can see the future where I receive the news and I can joyously return to your arms once more. The moment the fight is over, you will have me in every way you can and we will not be separated again. My heart cannot take your absence longer than I must. I miss your wild, ocean eyes; the way you take my face in your hands and the world goes quiet. There is too much noise here, too much blood, and I am so tired of fighting._

_I pray for another one of your sweet letters and pray that Allah will send me home soon so I can help you and your men liberate your beautiful Italia. The fascists will not find victory, not if you and I have a say in it._

_You have my heart as always, Nico. Even from a thousand miles away, you have me._

_Your love,_

_Yusuf_

He’s read the letter a thousand times since it came three months ago, the folds in the paper worn and thin, and every time it’s the same word in his head that grows louder and louder. _When_. When will this war end? When will another letter come? When will Joe come home to him?

It’s been three years since they’ve seen each other and months since the letter had crossed the lines back in April. Ever since the armistice and the German occupation, the resistance has tunneled even further underground. Nicolò knows the risk of capture firsthand now—has felt it in a noose around his snapped neck, has crawled from mass graves in the safety of night after falling to a firing squad, has died a dozen deaths to see his country freed.

But the constant state of decay without Joe at his side is the most painful death of all.

“Oi, Nico,” a voice says, startling him out of his thoughts. He looks up at Mattia, one of the newer soldiers that’s joined the partisans after escaping a German POW camp, and the suspicious confusion that’s clouding his face. “There’s a man asking for you. He says he’s from France and is with the Resistance. Arturo has been questioning him for hours but he is adamant that he has been your friend for many years.”

Nicolò’s heart stops dead in his chest and the rubble underneath him shifts as he scrambles quickly to his feet. _Booker_. “Did he say what his name was? Was there another man with him?” Mattia shakes his head and all hope of seeing his beloved Joe again seeps out of his aching heart so quickly it makes his head spin. Swallowing the lump in his tight throat, he asks, “Can you take me to this man?”

The walk to the makeshift bunker is a short one but it feels like miles—every footstep dragging like he has lead around his ankles. Nicolò hesitates outside the door, his grip tight around the handle, and he sends a silent, fleeting prayer to God that Booker has come with at least a spark of hopeful news.

The Frenchman’s coy smile is a sight for sore eyes, even with the dark blindfold tied around the upper half of Booker’s face. “Is that you, Nico?”

“Depends on the news you bring, my friend.”

It takes a while to convince Arturo that Booker is, indeed, not a spy and Nicolò vouches for him more than once before he’s finally allowed to be alone with the other man. He pulls the black cloth from Booker’s eyes and cuts the ropes binding his wrists to the back of the chair with the knife at his boot.

Nicolò sags in the younger man’s arms when they embrace, gripping his friend tight as a rush of familiarity floods through him. “It is _so_ good to see your face, Booker,” he whispers. “It has been far too long.”

“Likewise, Nico. I only wish I hadn’t come alone,” Booker says, releasing him and digging an envelope out from the inside of his jacket. The paper is worn, stained with dirt and blood and God knows what else, but Nicolò’s throat goes dry when he sees Joe’s curving script inking his name across the envelope. His hands shake as he takes the letter from Booker and he can barely tear it open fast enough.

_Nico,_

_I am, after so long, coming home to you. Please be there, my love._

_Yusuf_

The words are short and shaky and there is an undeniable stain of rusting blood along the edge of the page, but still, they are there. Nicolò’s heart careens to a standstill in his chest as he looks up at Booker with wide eyes. 

“This is from Joe?” he gasps, breathless and stunned. “You’ve _seen_ him?”

“We were separated at the border.” Something flashes in Booker’s eyes and it looks like regret or, worse, guilt over having left his friend, his brother, behind. “He made me promise to go ahead of him. To find you and make sure you got this letter.” Nicolò’s heart sinks into his stomach as the paper clenches in his hand. “I know Naples is in trouble and will need you and your men soon, but Joe is on his way here and I know firsthand how desperate he is to see you again,” Booker says, voice quiet and knowing. “We need to _go_ , Nico.”

He looks over his shoulder at the closed door behind them and while he knows he doesn’t owe anyone an explanation of why he’s leaving—if he leaves at all—Nicolò is keenly aware that these are still men he has been fighting with for the better part of three years. He has fought by their sides, died by their sides.

Leaving now would be a slap in the face to a cause they all believe in.

But his every minute without his beloved Joe is a minute too long and Nicolò is no longer willing to wait.

So he swings his rifle over his shoulder and says, “Let’s go.”

~~~

“Are you sure he’s coming?”

They’ve gone far south of Naples, deep in the mountains of Salerno, and Nicolò has finally dropped down to the ground after pacing around the top of the hills for hours on end.

The words feel heavy and anxious on his tongue and weigh even deeper on his soul. Joe should have been here by now and every minute, every hour, that passed by only drove the knife further into his chest. Booker shifts, just as uneasy as he is, and checks his watch again. “He’s coming. He _said_ he would come, Nico; Joe wants nothing more than to see your face again.”

It should be a comforting statement, but it’s not.

It serves only as a terrible reminder of the long years of his love’s absence. How do you live with half of your soul missing? How could Nicolò be expected to simply sit here and pretend that he has not been been dying every single second of every single day without the reassuring presence of Joe beside him?

The rocks dig into the palms of his hand and catch in his fingers as he clenches his fists. Joe is coming, he reminds himself. He is coming. He has to be.

The hope in his soul begins to fade as the hours drag on and the daylight grows dim. Nicolò can see the faint stars creeping in the navy sky behind him as the sun begins to dip in the costal waters to the west. His throat grows tight and he isn’t quite sure he’s even breathing at this point. There are so many terrible scenarios running through his head and Nicolò will not dare speak them out loud. Refuses to give them teeth to sink in and make real.

And then, after what feels like an eternity, he hears a quiet voice. “Nico, _look_.”

He startles a little, blinking quickly as he looks over at Booker and follows the younger man’s sight line to the far off valley. And then, Nicolò sees him.

Sees the familiar silhouette on the horizon in the setting sun, Joe much too far away to see his face clearly, but Nicolò knows it is him. Knows it is him like he knows himself, like he knows the earth will turn and the sun will rise and fall each morning and night. Relief floods through him like a rogue wave and his breath stills in his lungs. The ground shifts beneath him as he scrambles to his feet, the world tipping on its axis.

His legs cannot carry him fast enough.

“ _Joe,_ ” he chokes, his footsteps stumbling as he runs to the edge of the bluff. Nicolò can feel his heart slam him forward, his feet struggling to keep up as he takes off running. The rocks give way as he meets the edge, sending him sliding down the side of the mountain. His rifle slams up against his shoulder and neck and Nicolò can feel the bite of the rocks against his hands as he struggles to slow his fall. The blood drips down between his fingers, hands healing already as he careens himself back to his feet, and all Nicolò can think, all he can breathe, is _Joe_.

His vision tunnels and all he can hear is his own heavy breathing and the slamming of his boots against the ground—the deafening thump, thump, thump of blood in his ears. The landscape swims as tears bite at his eyes and Nicolò desperately clings to the strap of his rifle as it rattles against his spine. His shattered voice burns his throat raw as he shouts again, “Joe!”

The shadow on the horizon stops, shoulders sagging as he stumbles toward Nicolò. The distance closes and he can see the worn fabric of the other man’s uniform, the faint bloodstains that could not be scrubbed free.

Nicolò sprints faster, the huge muscles in his thighs firing at all cylinders as he gets close enough to make out Joe’s tired features—the absolute devastation in his face. His lungs are bursting at every seam and Nicolo gulps for air, no longer sure if it is from running or from the sobs he cannot seem to hold back.

And then, suddenly, Joe is there.

Joe is right _there_ as they crash into one another, catching Nicolò tight in his arms as their mouths crush together in a breathless, broken kiss. It is a not a good kiss by any means, off-center and open-mouthed, all teeth and chapped lips. Nicolò’s hands grip the other man so hard that he is sure he would leave bruises over Joe’s cheeks, his jaw, his neck and shoulders if either of them could hold such stains. His fingers fist in dark curls and the first broken breath spills from his mouth into Joe’s.

Their feet stumble and this is the only lifeline he has. Joe—the only thing in the world that can keep him from drowning.

Joe’s fists clench in the back of his shirt and Nicolò can feel him trembling into their still-unbroken kiss. There’s nothing he can do, no amelioration he can offer but to kiss Joe harder than before. It’s all bite and blood and the reminder that they are alive and together after three long, painful, lonely years.

It’s Joe that pulls away first, burying his wet face in the safe haven of Nicolò’s throat as he keens, “N-Nico…”

“I’m here.” It comes out more unsteady and more unsure than he means it—his nose tucked into the tangled crown of Joe’s head. “I’m here, God, _I’m here,_ Yusuf.” Nicolo’s breath still comes in double time and his grip hasn’t lessened the slightest.

The sun dips below the horizon and the thought of letting go doesn't even cross his mind.

Not when they are finally together again.

~~~

Joe’s eyes are far-off and distant as Nicolò kneels in font of him, hands trembling as he fumbles with the buttons on the other man’s uniform. They haven’t said much of anything on the walk to the closest town, finding shelter in an abandoned farmhouse, and he is so glad to finally have this precious time alone.

The lantern flickers at his side, shadows playing like demons on the walls. The jacket slips from Joe’s hunched shoulders and his eyelids flutter shut, eyelashes spreading across dark circles staining his skin. “Nico…”

“I know, my love,” Nicolò whispers, salt biting at his eyes and the back of his throat as he smoothes his hand over the bullet hole-shaped bloodstains on Joe’s undershirt. “I know.” A shuddering breath spills from those perfect lips—a sharp tear cutting down Joe’s freckled cheek—and the last of Nicolò’s resolve crumbles.

He buries his face in the warmth of the older man’s body, nose digging into hard sternum bones, and curls his arms around Joe’s back. Nicolò’s fingers tighten in the stained fabric so hard that he can feel the threads give way. They strain and pop and whine and none of that matters anymore. Warm breath floods across his temple as Joe drops his head down and curls a hesitant hand around the back of Nicolo’s neck.

“Don’t ever leave me again, Yusuf,” he says. No, pleads. No, _begs_. Begs to make up for lost time, for all those nights alone, for all the letters he never received. “I will _never_ survive if you are gone from me like that again.”

“I’m s-sorry,” Joe croaks, his body beginning to tremble. It starts in his delicate artist’s hands and Nicolò can feel it flood all the way into his stuttering heart. “I’m s-so sorry, Nico…”

“I don’t understand how Andy survives,” Nicolò chokes, biting back salt and tears. “To lose Quynh as she did is unthinkable. You went willingly and yet every day I felt like I was dying.” He pulls his face from Joe’s chest just enough to tip his head up—their faces so close that their noses are almost touching—and his heart shatters when he sees the tears in his love’s dark eyes. “Every day for _three years,_ Joe. My heart can’t take that again.”

A shuddering breath falls from Joe’s mouth as a tear tracks down his freckled nose. “I will never leave you again, Nico,” he whispers. “Never again, I _promise_.”

Letting Joe take him apart that night is like the first night they ever made love. Neither of them make a sound, lips brushing together in open-mouthed gasps as they stare into each other’s eyes. Nicolò cannot bear to tear his gaze from the glorious night sky that reflects in Joe’s eyes—so dark he swears he can see an entire universe of stars staring back at him.

The glow of the lanterns turns Joe’s skin to gold and he has never seen anything more holy in his entire life.

Even in a war, even in a world like this, it is how Nicolò knows he is still blessed.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Just a soft little ending for these two ☺️🥺🥰
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


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